


dying doesn't work like that

by 07JoeTheBastardo



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Dadphilza, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft, Resurrection, Time Skips, Time Travel, Toby Smith | Tubbo Misses TommyInnit, let's play a game called what the fuck am I doing, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07JoeTheBastardo/pseuds/07JoeTheBastardo
Summary: Tommy finds out that five years is an awfully long time to be dead.
Comments: 137
Kudos: 942
Collections: Lemon's Time Travel fic Bin, MCYT Fic Rec





	1. This isn't Kansas boys

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea while walking in circles, so maybe this story will turn out alright. Hopefully.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is a bit confused, lost, and really, how should he have known that death was going to be this hard?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! ^^ I'm a piece of garbage! I really should finish my stories before I go and begin another. HOWEVER! I have three drafts of my story "worst role player" so you will be seeing from me soon. This is just a three-part thing that I wanted to play around with. Nothing too serious (coughs) but you're free to continue with this story once I'm finished.

Tommy gasps, water rushing into his mouth, the cold water surrounding him, making his clothes heavy, the heavy hands of gravity dragging down into the endless, black void. He is clawing up, like a mad man in the vast sea—

And he springs up, coughing his throat raw and bloody. He spins around, disoriented, and confused as the world's axis tumbles. Like his head, his vision swarms and distorts with each breath he takes. His nose is itchy, too itchy and he blindly tries to bring his hand up, expecting to see blood and mud. His hand is numb, cold, and each touch against his skin feels like someone else. He doesn't feel real. Tommy coughs once, twice before he blinks away the turbulence in his axis. He stands in silence, standing still with his spine straight being an audacity to how his mind was scrambling circles. He blinks—

Tommy spins around, bends over, and throws up acid. He really shouldn't have eaten before the duel. He really should have kept his trap shut, his friends always tell him the same tune, _you speak too loud, too much, too fast._ Well, whatever, he's alive right? He ghosts over the fact he still feels like he isn't in his body. Once he gets into the rhythm of things, gets back into bed, eat something, and he'll be good as new. He just needs Tubbo to fetch him some carrots actually, he's running out. 

Speaking of that, where's his communicator? 

Is Wilbur going to be mad? He ignores his question as he palms his sides, looking for the small device. He lost, went against his say, and paid the price for it. Tommy spins around, eyes wet, and dutifully ignores the rancid smell coming from the small puddle next to his feet, looking around for that stupid comm. And Tubbo? Where is his friend? He glares at the grass, his fists shaking and his teeth building pressure in his gums. His eyes _finally_ find the small device, pocketed way on the forest's floor. He bends over, his finger rubbing away the perks of dirt. 

Huh, when was the last time he was in spawn, actually? Tommy turns his neck, looking at the treetops with an analytical eye. Also why the fuck is spawn so fucked up? He doesn't remember fighting here, or any sort of conflict even near it. It was an unspoken rule, that there was no fighting outside the borders. Tommy doesn't really trust his navigation skills, but he can't be that bad right? The path is. . . well, overgrown? He crunches his face in confusion, sure there wasn't any actual need to come to spawn, but did grass really grow this quickly? It makes sense, he supposes. 

He takes a deep breath, flickering his comms to life, he really hopes Tubbo isn't going to be an ass. Tommy knows how clingy and loud Tubbo can get, so when he clicks open and calls once, he's going over what he'll say over and over again to stop any concern.

And it rings. So he waits, a little frown growing with each ring. And rings. Is Tubbo mad at him or something? What the fuck. Honestly, he's being a dick! Tommy is the one that got shot to death here!

Finally, the line opens.

"The absolute nerve— Why the fuck didn't you answer the first time, you dickhead?!"

". . . " Silence. Tommy winces. 

Aw shit, now he feels kinda bad. He did fuck everything up like literally, he did doom the future of his nation, left them in chains and the path of an uncertain future. He swallows the lump in his throat. He scratches the back of his head, he can already see the straighten shoulders of his friend, tight lips, and angry wet eyes. Tubo can be just like him if he pushes him far enough. Awkwardly, he shuffles the gravel under him before snapping himself out of it and walking towards L'manberg.

"So, uh, yeah. Just for the record, I _totally_ let Dream kill me, alright? The bastard just needs that stability, ya know? So! I did kinda fuck it up, BUT! I have a plan, big man! Don't worry, say is Wilbur there? I really need to talk to him, kinda urgent—" 

"Tommy?" A voice that doesn't belong to Tubbo stops his mad rambling, he reels back, faltering in his steps. Tommy quickly straightens his back, eyes burning. 

"What the fuck? Who is this, why do you have Tubbo's communicator?!"

Anger is too familiar in Tommy's vocabulary. It's an old companion, hands interviewed the moment he learned the world is unjust in its justice and unfair in its laws. How dare this stranger touch Tubbo's communicator, after everything they have gone through? Seething, shaking from what he wants to call anger (fear), stalking the path faster. Their home is gone, their nation is in limbo, and all their stuff is gone with the wind. What more do those the world want?!

". . ." 

"I ain't gonna repeat myself again, who the fuck is this?! Is this some sort of ransom? Where's Tubbo? Are you working for Dream?!—"

"Tommy." That small sentence, steel strong yet underlying with thick emotion that one has to be crying to replicate. He stops his rant, stalling in the middle of the poorly maintained path. The forest is quiet, the rustles of leaves quieting with the wind, and he bites his chapped lips. He doesn't know why the trees look thinner, the forest less full, and quieter. He dutifully ignores the dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach.

"Tommy, is that you?" This time the man whispers like he was cradling a candle in a sandstorm. He wants to ignore how weirdly strange it sounded to Tubbo whenever he spoke during the morning, freshly awoken. He bites his lips hard enough to bleed, but he ignores it and begins to think. Think of a plan to do something around this, to contact help and someone to help him. What did Wilbur always say? Information is key, right?

Hesitating, he begins cautiously, "That's my name, don't overuse it."

There was silence before there was a ping in his communicator. 

_Tubbo whispers: Tommy is that you?_

He exhales a sigh of relief, if Tubbo was typing then that means he's alright. Then who the fuck is talking? 

_Tommy whispers: Tubbo? Where are you? Who the fuck is talking rn?_

The voice croaks back, their voice brittle and wobbly, "I am. Tommy, I am typing. I'm— I'm here, Tommy _. I'm here_." The worlds slow to a standstill, his eyes pinpointing to the dead leafs in the ground, the sky is bright today, too bright as a headache is drumming in sync with his heartbeat. He can't hear himself breathe. 

"No, you aren't." He can't stop the words from spilling, like oil in water (he thinks of blood, his blood), as he blinks and blinks again because he can't get rid of the blurs in the corners of his vision. 

Where is his friend? A white haze took reins, white noise covering his limbs, as he snarls out-

"You don't sound like Tubbo at all! Who the fuck do you think you're fooling?! Where the hell is Wilbur? What have you done to Tubbo?!" Tommy sprints now, full-on running, adrenaline blinding his burning muscles and muting his pain from his lungs. He can still hear the water rushing up, the cold shock as he struggled, to breathe, as he ran, clawing higher and higher—

He breaks through the clearing, the familiar cliffs and mountains coming to view.

There's a heavyweight coming off his chest. He slides down to his knees, the green grass staining his trousers, as he exhales and breathes in the fresh air. He can faintly see his body tremble, knowing that beyond the familiar mountain is his home. That's where Tubbo and Wilbur are, the van with the familiar creed of freedom, and walls protecting the redwoods where Tubbo keeps his bees. He's almost there, _almost,_ so close that Tommy can start to picture the sunrise on Wilbur's uniform and Dream as he pulls back— Tommy gazes out, finally focusing on what is in front of him, and stops.

He doesn't notice when the line cuts out on the other end.

That's weird. He— He doesn't remember that building being there. They weren't there when he was walking to the dual last night (to his death) like that, _that_ building right there. It white, big and took up a lot of space— wait, was that Walmart? Well, he at least recognizes the tree right there, he remembers how he and Tubbo climbed up there to hide from Wilbur after he stole from his chest. Wilbur was furious, but he still smiled when they came back muddled and hungry, and welcomed them with opened arms. 

Tommy only startles out of his stumper when he hears the hooves of a horse becoming louder and approaching fast. Too fast to hide, and Tommy smacks himself for his stupidity. He really does rush into things, doesn't he? Tommy turns around, the exhaustion taking him by surprise, as he struggles to stand up. He needs a knife, a gun would be better, but beggars can't be choosers. A heavy rock sat a few meters away, small enough to fit into his palm yet heavy enough to strain his arm muscles as he pulled it closer to his chest. Tommy sighs, Dream and his goons wouldn't kill him on sight right? They technically lost, yes, however, does that mean they're now exiles? Is Wilbur too busy packing and negotiating their terms of surrender that he never bothered to check his comms?

His chest felt a pang spread out, spilling out a thick feeling that Tommy wasn't really a big fan of. Tommy groans, hates the fact that his only damn "weapon" is a goddamn rock, that his legs are all wobbly and shit, that his brothers are forced to kneel because of his stupid mistake, because of Eret's betrayal, _Tommy just hates_. 

A sudden flash of color stops right in front of him, Tommy yelping as he drops the very heavy rock right into his poor foot. Cursing and jumping from the shock of the pain, Tommy only has a second to pull himself away from the beast in front of him. The sudden whirl storm of noises and movement threatens to send another nonexistent lunch right back out as Tommy glares. Black, soulless eyes stared right at him as if daring him to move. Tommy scowl, he isn't the fondest when it comes to horses, so he lets his anger and hate rise, his chest puff, and lets his ignition take hold. 

It happened so fast before Tommy even had the chance to open his mouth and let his rightful anger speak for itself, the man on top of the horse almost collapsed under his own weight as he got off the horse as if it was made from fire. One moment the sun behind the stranger blinded everything and leaving their faces obstructed, then they stepped forward. 

The tunnel vision zeros in, as he steps back, the blooming pain in his foot all forgotten.

Tommy instantaneously thinks back to old photographs. Torn sides and soft edges from being held too many times, there's always this distinct familiarity that people carry within them. Some smile and their teeth will give them away whether they be five or fifty years old, some laugh the same no matter the state of their throat, but others it's the subtlety of their body. He can recall the one-time Tubbo pulled him aside, so new to the revolution, and showed him his most precious possession. They aren't brothers, not by blood but by luck. They never knew what happened to who, all that mattered as when they met at the sunflower field, one covered in bees and another in blood. 

Tommy knows this person. 

This person hates to drink tea without milk, prefers to spend his days brewing and coloring, but he would get sidetracked at the smallest things. His person wears fluffy jumpers, loves honey too much to be natural, and can't really read too well but that's alright because Tommy— no matter how much he groans and drags his feet— would read for him and show him all the pretty pictures the books held. 

Blonde hair, shocking blue eyes, pale face distorted into awe and misery.

Tommy wobbly stands his ground, and he croaks,

"Tubbo?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thank you for stopping by. I have fallen deep into the rabbit hole now boys, and I would go back and write more into it, however, English essays wait for no man. sorry it's a bit short, but I like it that way.


	2. Hindsight really is a bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy knows how unstable the respawn process has, slowly deteriorating over time. How it glitches and causes confusion. He just never thought it would happen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The second chapter and one last one to go before I go and work on my other unfinished pieces. I kinda struggled on this one, but hopefully, you enjoy it! This sucked out so much of my energy holy shit.

This man isn't his friend.

A small part of him pops out and wants to run and hug the person in front of him. A tiny, microscopic part really, wants to shout and cries in confusion as he begins to understand. This stranger is taller, reaching the sky with broader shoulders that carry too many responsibilities, sharper eyes, and scars carelessly littering his face.

 _This is not Tubbo,_ he tries to tell himself as he steps back. His friend is probably doing some lame shit like crying because Tommy was being too impulsive again. His friend is safe and sound and Tommy claws at this hope, snarl at himself to believe it because Tommy _needs_ to.

This man wears darker colors and even darker eye bags. Jesus, when was the last time the guy took a nap? His Tubbo is soft colors, and honey jars, yet when push comes to shove, Tubbo is fire and brimstone with a happy trigger in redstone.

Not-Tubbo fidgets. It's that twirl of his finger at the edge of his shirt that leaves Tommy vulnerable. It's too painfully familiar that Tommy sags his shoulders and lets out a deep sigh. 

"Tommy? Is that really you?" Not-Tubbo whispers it as if he's afraid of being caught talking to empty air.

Tommy barks a wet laugh. After everything, you would think that he would recognize if he was himself or not. His face is slightly damp and his head aches, but Tommy feels like himself right now.

"Uh, duh? What— Do you think death can stop such a chad like me?" 

Not-Tubbo laughs with a wet smile, his face is cherry red, and he has nasty mucus leaking out of his nose. Honestly, how disgusting, does he not know how to wipe? Saliva pooling at his mouth as he chokes on his laugh. He looks really, _really_ ugly, actually.

It's a mirror to a faraway time when Tubbo broke his collarbone after falling off a spooked horse. Tommy had to carry him on his back through the field as they made it back to their house. He wouldn't stop crying, and Tommy had to stop himself from blowing up. The constant pain radiating from his friend, knowing that he couldn't do anything to help him, was raging.

"Of course. Not even death huh?" 

He says it with soft eyes, but the face doesn't match it. He looks at Tommy as one would a dying comedian. Pity and love, misery, and pain, Tommy fucking hates that shit. He actually fucking hates it. It the same expression he gave when he showed him the old photograph. He clenches his fist and takes a trembling step forward, back straight and steel in his voice.

_(One, two, three, four—)_

"Tubbo? What the fuck happened to you? Did you suddenly go through puberty overnight?" The man stops shorts as if a bubble around him popped and throwing him back into reality. He smiles. But it's not the same smile. This smile is more. . . Contained, sadder. 

Tommy is more aware of the wind picking up and he mentally trashes himself. Wilbur always told him he got too invested in what was happening in front of him that he was often blinded to what was surrounding him. 

These are not his lands, the cliff is the bare edges of his enemies, and despite seeing a familiar face, he's a stranger in Tommy's book. He tries to subtly look around himself, noting the different trees not being in the right spot, some missing altogether. The one thing that caught him off guard is the path intertwining the land.

It's. . . broken, misused, and too neglected. That's not how it looked last night, the dying sun casting one final glow before they started to count. (His fingers tear as he rips them on the hardwood, coldness, and wetness seeped into his clothing like chilled fingers as he chokes—) Tommy suddenly feels too exposed in the quiet land.

_(—five, six, seven, eight—)_

Another thing; it's far too quiet. Tommy can hear the horse munching on grass and beyond that, silence all around him; deep, full, endless silence.

"I guess I did, didn't I?" 

Not-Tubbo steps closer, matching Tommy with a faraway look. He. . . He looks nostalgic, like playing back an old family video. Tommy wants to swallow his tongue, wants to turn right back around, and keep walking the opposite way. Maybe hike the long way back home rather than the straight forward plan he had. Not-Tubbo slips his smile, and his face is too serious for his brain to play connect. Tommy matches it with a look of familiar ignition. 

"Tommy, what is the last thing you remember?" 

Tommy frowns. He doesn't want to remember the string pushing down on his fingers as he pulled back, the sharp taste in his mouth as he bent over and fell sideways, catching the eyes of the shell shocked Wilbur—

"I died for L'manberg." He bluntly states, there's no reason to sugar coat. That's something noble to die for, isn't it? Something that people write poems about and that historians absolutely gobble up. Tommy kinda feels proud in some strange, distorted way. He'll be remembered in more important ways now, they'll remember his heroics and his brave sacrifice for his country for decades.

That's something no one can take away from him.

Not-Tubbo flinches, however. His eyes are wet and his smile is wobbly.

"Yeah. You— You did die for L'manberg. And I'm so _so_ sorry that it happened to you Tommy," Not-Tubbo covers his face in shame, muffling the croaking voice.

Tommy claws his hands as if he wants to hug him but stops mid-motion, smacking the side of his face. This guy can put on a pretty good show, he has the exact micro-expression, the hitch in his crying that tricks his mind into auto-pilot. He looks so pathetic. Hunched shoulders and reminds him whenever Tubbo got hurt and pouted and _goddamnit_. (That's Tubbo, and he doesn't want him making that stupid face. )

He angrily sighs. As Tommy drags his hands down his face, he can already hear the voices of his brothers telling him off for doing such a stupid thing. He groans and kicks the dirt before facing Tubbo completely. Tubbo flinches, now seeing him lose his cold composure for one more familiar. Bracing himself, Tommy takes a deep breath. The air is crisp and clear and seemed free of pollutants or chemicals

And he tackles Not(?)-Tubbo into a hug.

Not-Tubbo immediately stiffens, and the first thing that Tommy registers is _huh, he smells different_. He smells of gunpowder and dirt, and he carries the same copper smell from being in a butchery too long. He feels different, he no longer fits as he used to. Before they would both fit in each other's arms perfectly, from practice Tommy would hook his arms under Tubbo's and they would gently squeeze to remind themselves they were here. Now he can't even do that, Tommy feels weird hugging a stranger with a familiar face. He ignores that in favor to feel Tubbo slowly melt into his arms, his arms straining to keep the guy standing.

"Tubbo, what the fuck happened?" Tommy whispers into a dark cloth, knuckles tightening as he cracks his neck back to look up. "Looking up to his face." God it's such a weird feeling, he never does this, the only people he ever has done this for are Technoblade and Wilbur. But Tubbo(?) is his friend, his equal.

Tubbo opens his eyes as if he woke from a dream, half hooded eyes dilating as he gazed at Tommy. 

"You died. And that change too much, Tommy." Tommy feels the shivers climb up his spine and his hair standing up, those words carry a heaviness that Tubbo never has done before. He even looks heartbroken. 

But then he smiles. 

"But. We— we got independence. We did it, _Tommy, we did it."_ He tells him as if he's sharing a school secret, hunched shoulder, and tight knuckles.

_Wait._

The noise around sucked itself out of his vision, the words paralyzing him.

What did he just say?

The buzz got louder.

Independence!?

Dizzy, he slowly looks up. To his surprise, the world hasn't stopped completely. He couldn't help a swell of pride and surprise when he realized what the words spoke actually held. Hope blooms inside him, as he feels like his feet barely touched the ground.

Tommy can feel the disbelief rising from the soles of his feet and elevating him to his shoulders, like the anxiety of war have finally evaporated. His head feels like, wide eyes as he looks at Tubbo, who looks so fond. His chest puffs out, a tiny wheeze of surprise comes out before he can gurgle it out. He could hardly contain his happiness that lets out his full-blown, high pitch laugh, loud and obnoxious. 

He doesn't know why he's even listening to this guy. For all he knew, he could be lying through his teeth, slick lies honey-coated to lower his defenses.

But. 

Tubbo is making such a happy face, with watery eyes and (How? When? Why? Didn't he die? Did he need to die for L'manberg to know peace?) Tommy can't help but believe the guy. 

Tommy howlers, ecstasy on the mere thought, not even fully ready to face the reality that his sacrifice has done something useful. Tommy spins around, facing the mountains, he can actually start to envision his home, tall flag proudly waving their independence. He jumps again, shouting, grinning madly. 

"Tubbo! Tubbo! We did it! We have independence! We— I have to go! To L'manberg! Let's go, Tubbo, c'mon man!" He grasped his hand, too big and too rough, and he tugs him along.

He can already see it— the fields of gold, the proud flag, tall walls where the moss grows so they can sit and enjoy the coolness that they sheltered under. Wilbur would be rolling his eyes and he and Fundy go fishing or do something lame like that. Sunshine flooded his soul, he and Tubbo would rob their stuff and laugh as they run away from Wilbur as he screams out his names, running away laughing and mischief. His heart leaped up for joy.

He almost chokes on his tongue as he's tugged back— _hard_. The daydream dissolves, and Tommy frowns as he turns around, sweat running down his back. Tommy is the one that tugs people around, yet Tubbo is stone face and unmovable. There's something tragic in his eyes, and Tommy hates his own guts right now because they are telling him that something is wrong when there shouldn't be. _They are free_. They no longer have to fight through explosions, to wake up in the middle of the night and scream as they see arrows of fire. He knows this because the blood he had swallowed was curdling in his stomach, and he could smell the seaweed as he's plummeting— 

A tendril of panic pulsed through him, but he crushed it without a moment of hesitation. Tommy _needs_ this goddammit, he doesn't need Tubbo to ruin this. Besides, some instinct inside was still whispering _run run run,_ and he was not going to sit here and ignore it when it apparently knew more about the situation than he did. 

"Tubbo, what the fuck man? What are you waiting around for?" 

Tubbo smiles. And Tommy can feel his muscles cramp up, and his instincts telling him to _run run run._

"Tommy, how about we talk first?" 

_( —nine, ten paces, fire!)_

* * *

Wilbur groans, wincing from the wound on his thigh. Fighting has been spiraling into intolerable toxicity that leaves him choking nowadays. He really doesn't want to rush into another battle. He thinks of Fundy and his ink pen breaks under his fingers. _Dad, why are you doing this?!_ Funny that a traitor would eventually be found, Wilbur is apparently a magnet for those.

He made a discovery not too long ago. He is flawed. That's understandable, he is only human after all and all humans are flawed. However, his flaw he can actually fix. He trusts too openly and too freely, letting his heart bust out and spill to the dirt as people walk all over it. Thankfully he has fixed this minor issue, but nowadays Wilbur feels so exhausted. He wants to rest. A flash of color and _Hey big man, are you sure you don't want to take a break?_

He refuses to acknowledge it and rather wants to rip the pages out of the leather book, to see it shred and crumple under his hands. Instead, he gently closes it, ignoring the snarling mess of his mind. Where is Technoblade anyway? He only ever got glimpses of the man whenever he's not tending to his farm. And even then, it's a gamble how he'll act. 

Sometimes, he's like himself. Wilbur's mind will jump to replay moments of a cold blade on his neck and angry tears as Techno shouts _where is Tommy, Wilbur? What did you do?_ But for the most part, Techno is just Techno. Monotone, calm Techno. He ignores the groan of his bones as he stands and walks out into the hallway. When did he become so old?

Maybe it began when became he came home like a dog, dragging with him a broken music disc and a letter from a dead boy.

* * *

"Wait— Wait, slow the fuck down! What the fuck do you mean L'manberg is in a goddamn civil war?!"

In hindsight, Tommy's gut knew following the new Tubbo into the forest wasn't his brightest idea. But can you blame him? No matter what people say about him, they cannot deny his sharp eye for the small things. Rocks that have never been there, trees thinning at the edge of the SMP, and of course the big, fat elephant in the room. Tommy isn't stupid, he knows something went wrong with his to respawn. 

Tommy understands how unstable the respawn process is. Before the older veterans describe it as a quick, forgettable process; your vision went black, you saw and felt nothing before _bam!_ You were back, and you quickly went along with your day. Now, the quick process has been slowly deteriorating, time would depend on Lady Luck, and death fell on the individual. Some say it felt like nothing, others screamed raw when they awoke, speaking tales of an endless void and high towers above them. He knew it glitches, the uncertainty that surrounds it makes sure that death is the last resort used on folks.

He just never thought it would happen to him.

Ever since Tommy has respawned, alone and sick to his stomach, he's been ruthlessly bombed with meteorite damage level knowledge and each spoken word shakes a bit more of his foundation. Again and again, Tubbo just speaks at a lightning-fast speed, leaving Tommy spinning and breathless at the whiplash.

L'manberg winning their independence? Tommy only got to celebrate in less than a full minute. To feel the buzz of the possibility that was once lost during the war, to start thinking of the endless possibilities of what L'manberg could be right now before Tubbo went and popped that bubble.

Tommy fumble as he stepped over the creak, the smooth stones slick with water making it difficult to gain a footing. He still trails behind Tubbo and his horse.

L'manberg elections? Sounded weird, but it made sense. It was held two years after the official declaration of peace. Rebuilding the landscape itself took a whole year. Building new houses, then fertilizing fields, and then establishing a new government, enforcing that government, and keeping the citizens happy— well, it was a hard task.

Then Tubbo said that he was vice president. That quickly hushed sentence stops Tommy cold in his tracks. _Tubbo_ was Wilbur's right-hand man? Granted he's been dead for what, two years? but it still stung being what, discarded? Left behind? Tommy shook himself from that, of course, they would move on! They couldn't keep a dead man as a leader, it only made sense.

Tubbo has that uncanny ability to tell what you're thinking based on "body language" as Tubbo describes it. Tommy thinks it's bullshit and can actually read minds, a huge breach of privacy if he has anything to say about it. Tubbo steps in front of him, blocking his efforts of stepping forward, and places his hands on his shoulders.

God, he's getting goosebumps. 

"It's an empty title, Tommy. You still hold the real power, as weird as it sounds. Wilbur— he never really got over your death. You were— _are_ his right-hand man, even to this day, I'm . . . I'm just there to keep the balance and stability, okay?" 

His blue eyes shift to keep their eye contact, his breath smells like berries and he isn't surprised to see a tiny bit stuck between his teeth.

Why does he smile like that? Especially after saying something so sad?

Tommy scoffs, "Whatever, you're the vice president, you should respect that. I was only the right-hand man because I was louder than you." 

Tubbo snorted a laugh, unable to feel insulted or flattered by the insinuation. 

"Nah, we trusted you to get us through the war and you did." Tubbo was slow to drop his hands and hesitantly fell in step with him. Apparently, he was being led to the new capital of L'manberg, on the very edges of the city. Wilbur was forced to move for fear of fighting breaking out near the center. 

When Tommy asked why, Tubbo's eyes widened a bit as if he forgot to mention a very, important and _tiny_ bit crucial piece of information; it was all going well in L'manberg until Schlatt threw his hat into the ring. 

"Wait, Schlatt? Like the Big Alpha Male, awesome chad?! He's here?!" Even though finding out his nation rose from his sacrifice alleviates a lot of the pain in his chest, he was forced to slow down to keep his footing from the sheer surprise. Tommy had to blink away the sting in his wide eyes from the winds, observing how tense Tubbo had gotten.

An unguessable amount of time passed, one foot placed unsteadily in front of the other.

"Yes. But, Tommy he's. . . not a good man. He's the one that tore the Foundation of the nation. He ran for presidential despite not even being a citizen!" Tubbo snarls, he looks like a wild man rather than the friend he saw on the bridge. _Why must the last memory of Tubbo have to be that?_

He gritted his teeth again. There's too much confusion in his mind, like fingers dipping in and out of a jar, mixing and messing everything to an unrecognizable glob. Tommy would have shouted, either in defiance or shock, but it fell flat in his feet when he began to think. It was a shift as he started to connect the dots in his mind, seeing Tubbo ( _blistered hands as they jolted him from the cold water_ ).

Why was Schlatt here? Weren't he and Wilbur, like, best friends?

If he went along, he might find the answers. If he just stayed here like a gaping fish, he certainly wouldn't. He is under no real illusions that this is some dream brought by delirium, he knew that the dry branches under him were as real as the blue sky above and the breathing horse behind him. Tubbo waited for his response, or maybe reaction, standing patiently still and quiet.

Tommy sighs, onwards it was, then.

The rock stacks were huge, many times his own height, formed of flat parallel layers of stone. He recalls coming here once, during the first nights of the war with Tubbo for some mission. The forest around them remained as featureless in its animals and noise though, as they walked closer to the rocks. There was deeper darkness behind the rocks to his left. He limped over to the closest rock pillar and leaned against it wearily. The rock was gritty and cold beneath his hands. Jesus, he's exhausted. 

"Wilbur isn't himself. I don't know when he started to slip, but I think I noticed it more when Technoblade joined. He became colder, more aggressive." Tommy barks a laugh out of the sheer pressure he feels behind his eyes. They ache too much. He tenderly holds his temple, maybe out of the sheer nervousness he feels compelled to lighten the mood. 

"Since when did _Technoblade_ join? Wasn't he busy with his own war?" And Wilbur Soot, the same man who refused to wear armor and carry weapons only until his _literal_ life was in danger, aggressive? Cold? Sounds like straight-up nonsense.

The dead man closes his eyes, just for a moment, and tries to hold back despair. He could feel that he was almost at the end of his strength, and there was nowhere else to go. Aiming for Independence had been a long shot anyway, but what was the point if he wasn't even there to celebrate? The wind whistled past him and he shivered again, considering his options.

It really all came down to two choices. Run, or go on. He could stay, and try and make a lick of sense from all the information just regurgitate onto his lap. Maybe try and see if his house is still there, get some carrots, hell a shower sounds heavenly right now. He also had to confront what Tubbo as been speaking of. Most he thinks is bullshit, too many irregularities to add up, but in the slightest chance he is right. . . he doesn't really want to taint the last images of his land and family. 

Or, he could go. Set out wildly into the dark in some random direction, on the off-chance that he stumbled across some unclaimed land and just settle. Not to think of explosions rocking his feet, cold water seeping into his mouth, blood swelling in his lungs— well, It didn't seem like much of a choice at all, and the thought of just lying down here and not moving again was very compelling.

Tubbo with his mind-reading abilities just smiles sadly. He does that a lot, and his most burned impression is just that damned sad smile. He holds his hand out, the horse tied behind to a thin and aged tree. Tommy doesn't take it, instead, he pushes himself off, ignoring the drag of his legs as he climbs over the rocks. If he remembers correctly, this should be the best view of L'maberg. 

Tommy and Tubbo, after their semi-failed mission, sat here and watched the sun set over the land, the warm haze coloring the clouds pale yellows and bright orange. It's fuzzy on the edges when he wants to remember what he said then, he wonders if he said something funny to make the moment last. 

Tommy steps over, and the first thing he sees is the bright blue sky with no end in sight. There should have been a clear line of where it caught off, instead, it continued over the hill. Where walls should have been is empty air, too many buildings, and too few trees. _The redwoods are gone_ Tommy notes. Which doesn't make much sense, he planted those with Fundy and Tubbo on a Saturday. They threw dirt at each other and Wilbur had to shout at them to not make more of a mess than the land currently was. _Where are the walls?_

Huh, that's weird, why can't he feel his palm?

Everything started to lose focus a little after that. Step after step, and each more agonizing than the last. He lost his balance once as the muscle gave out, and slid down several steps. Clawing himself back up through the wave of agony was almost more than he could manage, but steady hands gripped his biceps. Someone gathered him up and lifted him securely and he felt the world sway as he was carried away. The person carrying him hummed softly with a soothing vibration and Tommy was set down on something warm. His eyes were swimming with black spots, feet so cold they couldn't feel the stone any more, breaths catching in his abused chest…There was a rushing sound. Was it water or the noise in his head?

_Where are the walls?_

* * *

"Where is Tubbo?" Techno didn't halt in his farming, bringing the heavy tool over his shoulder and down again. It was a repetitive motion that would have killed anyone else, but for Techno it only made him calmer. More like himself. 

Wilbur shited his feet in the dirt. He never liked this farm. Too open, too many possibilities to take your shot. _Wilbur, do I take my shot?_

"I haven't seen him since this morning if that's what you're asking. Left after he received some message." Wilbur forced his gaze away from the figure in his peripheral vision, taking a look over his brother. Dirty sleeves, and dirt coating his once clean boots. His red cape is nowhere to be seen, in fact, Wilbur hasn't seen that darn thing since he joined. 

He hums, "Do you know anything about it?" 

When Wilbur came back from delivering news, there was already a memorial in the central town square for a dead boy. Underneath a simple monument were the freedom creeds that spoke _aim wherever your heart desires._ He later found out it was all spearheaded by Tubbo. In his honesty, Wilbur never made any real efforts to get into the same level for Tubbo as he did Tommy. Tommy with wild hair and even freer eyes of wonder as he runs away, never standing still because that meant you're missing out on some adventure somewhere else. Tommy with that obnoxious laugh, too loud and more often than not, never at the right time.

Tommy this, Tommy that. Always Tommy.

It stung. Every memory made it sting harder than the last. He never experienced this pain, but, oh how he hated it when he passed something that flung him harshly into a fond memory, his mood switching rapidly and his mind shifting faster than he could possibly keep up with. Wilbur knows he's fighting a losing battle with himself, the fond memories turn sharp and angry, clawing and biting in his tender spots 'till he's left with nothing. And he lets them. 

"No."

Wilbur grimaces, pulling himself out of his thoughts. It would be a shame if Tubbo betrayed them, but oh well looks like he has to pay him a quick visit. Wilbur spun around and walked away from the hunched figure, still pulling potatoes watching the man leave with a tune in his hum and a jump in his feet. Everything was once pretty, years ago, he started the little nation to poke fun at Dream, to bother him and his team. To knock him back a little and humble him, a reminder that everyone is human. Of course, there were wars, and of course, L'manburg didn't win. Not all of them. Wilbur remembers this with a soft smile.

(— _eight, nine, ten paces, fire!_ )

Tommy saw a future and Wilbur sang it, and every memory made it sting harder than the last. 

* * *

When Tommy awoke, to his surprise, both alone and in a quiet, what was this, a bed? He lay still for a while, enjoying the peace. He cared very much for Tubbo, but they could be quite exhausting. Physically, he felt better now than from what he could remember.

( soft rocking, going somewhere as there's someone softly humming a song of freedom ) Did Tubbo put him on his horse? Where the fuck is he? Glancing around him, he's startled to see his coat taken off and hanged by the chair next to the bed. Did he take it off?

Much of the pain from the exhaustion and aches, his body was definitely improved for the rest that had been forced on it. But as for the remainder of him… well, he felt restless, uncomfortable in his own skin. Anxious almost. His head still ached, a throbbing pain deep in his temples. Now he was awake, he was surprised he had been able to sleep at all. He needed to get up and do something, anything, to take his mind off the swirl of chaotic feeling in his head. It was as if all of the emotion he had felt in his short memory; fear, gratitude, panic, delight, doubt; were all clamoring for his attention and he couldn't find any way to release them.

But for now, all he can do is get up and see what kind of chaos Tommyinnit can cause today. 

Another problem, of course, arose with him. Again, where the _fuck_ is he? Looking around the room, it was clear that somebody else already laid claim to it. Letters and paper scattered the desk in the corner, and the opposite of it was a shelf holding books and random stuff. A sculpture of a bee quietly stood at the far end of the desk. Yep, this is Tubbo's room. He and Tubbo found clay at the bottom of the lake, and through many errors rather than trails, they managed to make little sculptures of random shit. Tubbo proudly showed off his while Tommy struggled to hold up a cow figurine. 

Tommy stood up cautiously and tested himself. Did he feel any sort of weird pain? Nope. All good then; his feet were warm for the first time in ages, and the tight feeling in his chest dissolved along with the exhaustion. That's a good fucking nap if he says so himself. 

Cautiously stepping closer to the door, he pressed his ear against the wood, trying to hear anything. He could only hear the soft muffled voices of people beyond it. He took a deep breath, well, nobody can ever call the great Tommyinnit a pussy now can they?

As he stepped outside, Tommy could see the window to this right, the voices now more clear and distinct. The window left the sun in a clear sky. Tommy, of course, had not yet seen any of this house before, and as he stepped out through the large door, he turned back to look.

The main room he was in is the last one in a relatively long hallway, leading off from the door were at least one side passage or room. And beyond that is a staircase, the front steps only obscured by the wall as it turns. The sails of the white curtains floated lazily at the back of the cracked window.

 _Tubbo you're not making any sense,_ someone voiced. He can hear the voice rise in volume, now clearly hearing them talk. _It's Wilbur_ , the realization drops him to a stand-still. Does Wilbur know he's here? Did he miss him? Tommy thinks he would, I mean, what could they do without their greatest fighter, and coolest right-hand man? Wilbur singing around the campfire as they roasted nuts and mushrooms from the forest, Tommy had to gag with Tubbo on his shoulder laughing. Fundy rolled his eyes and helped Wilbur out, who was humming with his eyes closed. The musician turned general. 

Tommy lost track of time for a little while, his eyes lost in the past, still eavesdropping into the very obvious private conversation. 

"SHUT UP! TOMMY IS DEAD!" Someone shouted. Sounds were wildly distorted in his ears; he could hear crying and shouting, and then a calm, clear voice said;

"He's not."

The second jolt of adrenaline felt more like nausea. Tommy scrabbled to the staircase and at the same time wondered whether he ought to try and stand out now, or stay where he was until whoever was there to go away. Tommy cursed himself under his breath. Who the hell do they think they are, thinking he's dead? He turns the corner and— 

"What’re you on about bitchboy? Nobody can get rid of the great Tommy Innit that easily!” 

Okay, _maybe_ he should have waited until they finished their conversation.

* * *

He wandered across a broad terrace of forest in front of the house which led up to the ridge at the edge of the dell. From here, a valley opened up and he could see a scattering of dispersed farmland clustered along the line of a narrow road. The small house enclosed gardens or fences, and the horse grazing in the larger fields around. Beyond the forest, the cliffs descended into crags and then into rolling green hills. Far away, following the line of the roadway up the valley, he could see sunlight glinting of metal and dark shapes. L'manberg, or what is left of it.

Wilbur stepped over the bridge, the wooden planks creaking in greeting. He never understood why Tubbo wanted to make his new house so far away, closed off in the forest and away from everything he worked so hard for. He'd known that this was bound to happen; he had decided months ago that the traitor would be revealed eventually, and yet still he felt a familiar sting in his chest. He merely hummed. 

He blinked his eyes, and Tubbo's house swam into focus. The overgrown path strayed into the forest, leading to random spots. His horse, a prize won after the war, glanced at him once before it resumed its munching on the patch of grass it was tied to. It's rare for Tubbo to leave his horse around through, and the barely cracked window of his room suggested he's still here. 

He knocks once, listening to the shuffling behind the door cease, and watched the door slowly click open.

 _Wow, Tubbo looks terrible_ , Wilbur scans his tired face, surprise quickly melted to a familiar smile, his hands gripping the side of the door with an iron grip loosened. 

"Oh hey Wilbur, sorry. I wasn't expecting any guest right now, do you need something?" Wilbur stayed silent, observing the nervous tone of his voice and the unwavering eye contact. He narrowed his eyes. It wouldn't be wise for Wilbur to attack him now, but he supposes he could get some information out of him first. 

Wilbur smiles, "I haven't seen you all day. Care to explain?"

He discovered that more often than not, the blunt truth is more effective than dancing around with his words. Truly a blasphemous thought if he was a different man from a bygone age, but the one thing that Wilbur still kept around is his smile. A smile that Tubbo paled to see. 

"Uh sure. Come inside then," Wilbur nodded his head in gratitude, quickly stepping inside with his hands on his pockets. Fiddling with a knife should the dire situation ever arise, he reassures himself. Techno is always insisted on keeping a weapon on his person. He _really_ doesn't want to hurt Tubbo, he's been sticking to his side for so long now, but he has learned his lessons. 

Shutting the doors close, he narrows his eyes. Tubbo still is so young, yet he has grown away from the small boy that used to follow behind Tommy's shadows like a duck. Yeah, he learned his lessons alright. Tubbo led him to his chair, the only open one to the mess of his kitchen, sitting down ever so slowly.

"Well? Go on, please explain Mr. Vice-President."

Tubbo sat down the opposite of him, reflecting a serious light in his eyes. As if he was staring down an enemy, Wilbur wonders when that happened. Was it when he wasn't looking? When he turned his back for a split second?

"Wilbur. . . Do you remember the day of the duel between Tommy and Dream?"

Startled, Wilbur whiplashes, and he's standing on the wooden bridge, baby blue eyes stare up at him, like the first time they met, so wide and so shocked, _W-Wilbs._ He grinded his teeth. Why would _Tubbo_ ask this? As if the man wasn't there as they planted flowers in his grave and as if he didn't come back with hollow hands and a broken nose.

 _"Of course, I remember!_ Why the hell are you asking this!?"

Tubbo paused for a second, looking at the corner of the table with the same intensity he held when looking at the campfires during his night watch. They would sing pretty songs once, didn't they? 

"I— I got a message this morning."

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, snarling and shredding any past memories fogging his present. Did Dream message him this morning? Is that why he's bringing up that dreaded day into the light?

"Well out with it, what was it about?"

Tubbo placed his hand out over the table, not comforting but in a grounding way. It was pale, too rough, and too big for his eyes that waved into a time of innocence. It kinda reminded Wilbur of grieving mothers, sitting in the tranquillity before the devasting news. There is a blow of anger in his throat, like breathing in the smoke of a dead fire. It's a pretty metaphor that perfectly describes Wilbur now; a dead fire with only smoke left to smother and suffocate those around him with its toxicity.

"Wilbur, it was from Tommy."

He breathes. Counts the seconds between each halted breath, and releases it again. _Repeat_. Tubbo can be ruthless in twisting the words deeper than a blade, that's for sure. _Repeat_. He's always the quickest to connect the invisible puzzle, he was proud of him. His looks of a small child and innocence fooled most people. _Repeat_ , and Wilbur twirled with his knife, hand still in his pocket.

"Tubbo you're not making any sense. How the hell could a message be delayed for five years?" _Information is key_ , Wilbur spoke those nuggets of wisdom to a boy with a scream for a laugh, once. Maybe it's time he listens to himself once in a while. Tubbo nods in agreement, his eyes crestfallen and his face too young to look so tired. 

"Wilbur, do you remember the last time you respawned? "

Wilbur did. Technoblade with his blade on his throat, mute and unseeing as Wilbur could only shed a tear in gratitude. He wanted to sleep and not wake up to an empty house on a hill, instead there was darkness and nothingness. For a fleeting second, he thought he heard his name being shouted and he woke up to an unfamiliar bed and a man with a sad smile next to him. Dread filled his stomach. He doesn't like his gut feeling right now, pushing his nerves and pulling at his tendons to _move, move, move, move._

Wilbur does none of that, instead, he pulls his spine straighter and narrowing his eyes to glare at the hunched figure sitting still.

"What does it have to do with your disappearance? "

Tubbo took a deep breath, before bluntly stating, "Wilbur, Tommy is alive."

Phil is standing in front of him, unseeing eyes looking past him, murmuring about unfished projects, he tries to be comforting, placing a hand on his shoulder as he's telling him _it's not your fault_ with a sad smile. But he can see it in his eyes. Technoblade, mute and cold, ruthless in the beginning before he came around, but not the same. Never the same. He too has the same eyes as Phil, accusatory and predatory. _Why didn't you protect your brother? We placed our trust in you. Tommy placed his trust in you._

He knows it because he sees it every morning in his reflection. 

Softly, "Tubbo you're confused. We buried Tommy in L'manberg, that's why we're fighting back. Did you forget how we lowered his body in?"

Now he feels a bit of pity. Tommy and Tubbo, the unbreakable pair. Always running around together and if you see one then the other is never too far behind. Living in the woods hasn't done the boy any good. 

"Tubbo, I think it's time you have left this place. It's making you confused and disoriented. Tommy died at the hands of Dream. Now let's go, Techno is waiting for us." Wilbur stands, ignoring the warp axis at the corner of his vision and the backflips his stomach is doing with the mere motion of just standing up. He doesn't know if he even has the strength to lift his legs, feeling like they were wrapped in concrete and he's pushed into the bottom of the river with his little brother.

"Wilbur please listen to me. I understand that this is too much to take in right now, but _please listen._ I received a notification from Tommy this morning, here you can see it," Tubbo shoves the small device into the air between them, Wilbur not making any attempt in touching it. _Why was his head pounding so hard?_ "I thought it was some kind of trick done by Fundy or Schlatt, but when he started to talk. . . It was him, I just knew it. So I rode out—"

_Please stop talking._

"—I found him in Spawn. He was a bit wobbly and confused like he didn't know where he was. He didn't recognize me at first, much less from my voice—"

_Shut up._

His head is filled with static as he stares at the… 

slick blood, water mixed with the tears of pale eyes.

When did his hands start shaking?

"—He was Tommy. He tried to message you as well but said something about an error. I explained everything to him, a bit too much and he got overwhelmed when he saw L'manberg—"

"SHUT UP! TOMMY IS DEAD!" Wilbur's voice is hoarse as he shouted, breathless from holding in all the rage and wild emotions. Why couldn't he understand that? W _hy was it so difficult to understand? T_ he boy in the corner, always there and always so silent, merely hums that stupid song. He needs to break those discs because if he doesn't this ghost won't stop, but then he thinks of Tommy dancing under the tree, so wild and free and _he can't think. Why is his head pounding so loudly?_

"He's not." _How dare he?_ Wilbur narrows his world to this insignificant child, saying this with such clarity and authority when his father is still shattered in the edges and his hugs don't feel the same. When Techno will go into rampages and spill blood into the soil for poppies to grow. A rush of anger overcomes him, so strongly it leaves him out of breath. His hands curl into fists, the nails digging into his palms as he tenses all over, toes curling inside his dirty boots, a horrible crescendo of tidal waves crashing down.

He opens his mouth, sharp tongue and fire in his eyes—

"What’re you on about bitchboy? Nobody can get rid of the great Tommy Innit that easily!” 

Blond hair. Blue eyes. A loud moth. Quick words. Persistently annoying. Always there. 

Wilbur stills. The tension suddenly rushed out of him, and he feels his limbs go limp, even as his heartbeat raced. Wilbur felt himself go rigid, he tried to mumble a warning, that this is some sort of delirium, but the sun hit the kid's hair just right and he looks so, unbelievably real. _Focus. Don't lose sight, not again, focus!_ He really tries to, but he's shaking hard, and his breath is too caught up behind painful ribs. His eyes were wet with tears. Wilbur feels like he's exploding from the seams; all the emotion bottled up inside him with nowhere to go but to rise up.

 _He sounds so real_ , a part of him mumbles, as if drawing itself close to their chest. So incredibly real. He can see the tired streaks under his eyes, the nervous smile, and the altering eyes to catch anything but his own. Tommy stands proudly as if he's wearing the L'manberg flag as his cape instead of his old white shirt. _He looks so real, but don't be fooled again._ The buzzing in his ears got so loud it started to overtake the pounding against his ears, his mouth is dry as he struggles to open it. 

"Tommy, I thought you were still asleep," Wilbur snaps his head to Tubbo, now standing over the kitchen table, expression shiting between fondness and annoyance. Tommy can exacerbate any situation, and if Wilbur was more aware, then maybe he would have laughed.

"Yeah, so? I heard you lot were talking about the great Tommy innit, how can I not barge in?" He snaps his head back to Tommy, who leaned away slightly from the sudden shift of attention. They are talking to each other. They can see each other.

He's looking at a ghost. The boy who stared back was pale; his puffed face had a haunted look around the eyes and cheeks that spoke of tears. The over-large size of the clothes did not help the impression of fragility. His hair, which was desperately in need of a good comb, fell into his bright eyes, and unkempt.

". . . T-Tommy?"

A beat of silence. 

"Hey, Wilbur. Sorry, I'm late to the party apparently I need to have some words with God after this." Tommy steps closer, a pressure against his weak lungs builts up and he needs to _breathe_. But he's afraid if he takes too long the image will fade. A step closer. God, when did he get so close?

"Hey, Big Man? You good?" Tommy places his palm on his bicep, the warmth seeping through the fabric, down into the marrow of his bones. Is that Tommy? Standing in front of him, bright eyes luring him from the darkness surrounding him, a numbness spread from his arms down to his fingernails. Yet he deserts him too plausibly, especially when he needs them the most. Tommy still wears the same mask of worry, a slightly crooked smile shaped by his nervousness. 

"Tommy." Wilbur states. As if it's as normal as the blue sky above and the stone under their feet. More often than not, his chaotic mind would be filled with scattered thoughts is a bit too loud, even the ensuing silence within is catastrophically deafening. In such moments of adversity, is where Tommy comes around. He is always silent, humming Mellohi with a sad smile on his face. This Tommy is concerned, talking and nervous laughter ready to pop off. 

"You're. . . here?" There's a type of calmness, the same ones of the waters or perhaps the stillness of the woods, these became companions in the silence that was otherwise thunderous. There's the same calmness as Tommy looks at Tubbo and back to him.

"Uh... Yeah?" Tommy looks bothered, dropping his hand, the warmth elevating and letting the cold sweep back in. Tommy smiles, it knocks the air out of his lungs. 

"WELL ANYWAYS! I died! Totally not my fault, letting you know right now. Totally gonna stab Dream after this-- But we got independence man! We did it, Wilbur!" Tommy's loud boom breaks the spell roughly exhaling, feeling the burn in his lungs spread, and he pushes himself forward, his mind cluttered and claustrophobic telling him _he isn't thinking straight_ and crashes to the warm body in front of him. If his mind is cruel enough, he feels the startled jump and the fast arms that encased him. _This is real,_ he thinks with a sob, Wilbur collapses into himself like a black hole. 

He dropped his head down onto Tommy's shoulder, and just let himself breathe, let the simple comfort of being held push down the panic and dread that was coursing through him. He palms his back, feeling the rough fabric and the tense muscles. A soft hand soon found its place on Wilbur's back and he fought a shiver. Wilbur simply resting his eyes and listened for a long time to the sound of ragged breathing. His head is spinning.

After a few minutes, he pulled away but his hands on Tommy never let go.

Soft hair and bright, watery eyes peered out. A smile and ever so softly, "Hey Big P, sorry I took so long." 

_Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy._

The realization crashed and burned, "Oh god, _Tommy_." He croaked out, his throat raw, clawing the boy back into another hug. He needs to feel the pulse on his neck, listen to the hitched breathing, to the somewhat muted questioned voice. He's almost underwater, listening to the warped voices above him.

 _"You're alive."_ In his awe, he missed the stillness that took hold of the boy, whispering the impossible to the air, holding the words with the same fragility he held the dead boy's body. 

"Uh, yeah man. Breathing and shit, uh, can you please let go now? Kinda need to breathe here man," Wilbur tighten his hold, letting go? When a miracle occurred in front of his eyes, the same boy that he's fighting the world for, is here, and he wants Wilbur to let go?

"Wilbur."

He whips around, the hidden knife is in his palms before he blinks. The blade rested perfectly in line with Tubbo's jugular, who's face is stone cold and unmoving. Tubbo narrows his eyes. _Woah, what the fuck?!_ But he ignores it, the burning fire of a long-dead passion roars into gears, kicking everything into overdrive. 

"You're scaring Tommy, Wilbur," He doesn't need to look behind him as the boy struggles against his hold, to listen to his panicked breathing. 

A deep, full, endless silence contrast against the sounds of fabric as Tommy finally breaks free.

"What the fuck Wilbur?! And I wasn't scared!" Tommy stands proudly, chest puffed and his eyes ignited with a fire burning so bright Wilbur wonders how he isn't getting burned. _No, he did get burned_. His face is painted angry, but his eyebrows pitcher concern, and with his fists shook with what people may believe is anger, Wilbur raised him long enough to distinctly know the difference between anger and fear.

"Now, can one of you fuckers actually explain what the fuck is going on?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. 
> 
> That was something huh? I just wanted to have some more angst and tragedy before I move on to the eulogy. Also, cliffhangers! Those are fun, right? I kinda rushed on the last bit of the chapter since I do have a real-life job I need to go to soon, but I hope you guys enjoy it either way.
> 
> POST EDIT: WOW, THE STREAMS HUH? DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING. AND PHIL! LORD, I AM MAKING THE NEXT CHAPTER ABOUT PHIL BECAUSE OF THE STREAMS. LONG LIVE THE UNFINISHED SYMPHONY!


	3. Wait, who the fuck are you??

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy seriously needs to get some help. Wilbur being incredibly clingy and Tubbbo being a hawk, well at least Techno will be alright. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, last chapter before I go into hibernation for ten years. ITS A MIRACLE!

Tommy would be the first to say that Wilbur is acting a bit strange. Anyone would after finding out that the great Tommy Innit pulled a Houdini on death itself and escaped its grasp. Anyone would be fawning over themselves to catch a glimpse of him. But Wilbur is being. . . a bit uptight? Sure, he died and all, but was it really necessary for him to ride the same horse as Wilbur?

Wilbur shifted, their backs breaking contact for the first time since he was placed into the front of the reins, and Tommy is grateful for the cool air that swept in between his sweating back. But Wilbur quickly squished Tommy closer to him, and a part of Tommy doesn't mind this: he's warm, closer to Wilbur than they had been since the start of the war, a solid steady reminder that he's _here,_ alive and well, and not deep in a cold river. 

But here arose a new problem; he's also getting sun sleepy. That's a huge problem because he isn't some child to get sleepy because they are warm! Tommyinnit doesn't get sun sleepy! That's childish, _Tubbo_ is the one that does that! Speaking of the man himself, he appeared next to them, the same horse never faltering as they trekked together towards New L'manberg, a stupid name, in silence. Tommy hid a wince, yeah this is the most uncomfortable, weirdly long silence he's ever been. 

"SO!" Wilbur jumps, the reins tightening before losing them, and Tubbo whipped his head so sharp and fast, Tommy wonders how he didn't snap his neck from the velocity. Tommy grinned because he's a showman at heart, and that means give the people a show to remember. 

So, Tommy whipped his hair to his side, irritating Wilbur with a mild distaste, and overexaggerated his movements as he turned to face his friend. 

"Why, exactly is there a New L'manberg when there's already a L'manberg there?"

God, it sounds like a setup for a bad joke. Tommy already has an idea on why Tubbo looks so stricken whenever Tommy brought up the walls, or why Wilbur refused to let go of Tommy but it's better to get the info straight from the source. 

"Because they spit in the ideals of what makes this nation so great, they spit in the sacrifices done by you to get us independence and dare to ignore the—" Wilbur spat heat, Tommy is a tiny bit alarmed by the sheer venom coating his tone, glancing down at the white knuckles gripping the leather reins. The horse only huffs in annoyance.

 _Holy shit_.

Tommy can admit to being a bit nervous. He has never seen Wilbur this mad before, the closest he can recall was when Fundy patrolled the walls without Wilbur's permission, leading to a heated shouting match. Tubbo and Tommy ended up kinda awkwardly camping it in the kitchen when it went down. Where is the furry anyway?

"— raising the taxes to an unfair level! And to blatantly raise it to the people that publicly disagree with him! They don't care for L'manberg's history, they only eye the fruits of our hard labor!" 

Tommy knows it's true, in some ways, but he still doesn't understand. Why wouldn't they appreciate his sacrifice? And who are "they" in this context? Tubbo only shifted in his saddle, not speaking a word. It so weird, looking at his friend, well an older, more silent version of his friend. His real friend would be talking his ear off on the most random topic, suddenly remember something he was trying to say a few hours earlier, say it, and completely forget about what he was speaking off before, thus repeating the cycle. 

And speaking of others.

Tommy takes a good look around him, the forest is becoming a bit louder, meaning they had to be close by now, right? To the supposed New L'manberg. "Hey. . . Where's Fundy? Haven't seen the guy in a while."

Wilbur sharply inhaled, and Tubbo's face physically grimaced. And Tommy internally cringed, he said something he shouldn't have, didn't he? He groans silently, he always somehow ends up doing this.

Tubbo speaks first, breathing a sigh, "Fundy. . . Kinda left us. He ran for president during the elections, and at first, he was on our side before he flipped over to the other." 

Tommy squinted at him, ranking his brain for any calculated solution to the word problem it was placed on. President? Is this where Tubbo told him about Wilbur and him holding some stupid elections? Tubbo did kinda gloss over that bit. In fact, Tubbo glossed over a lot of really important shit. 

But Tommy is not known for holding in his curiosity, especially when he needs answers.

"Kinda left? What the hell does _that_ even mean? And _r_ _an for president?_ I mean, I get the whole election thing, but did he, like, run against _Wilbur_?" Tubbo, eyes closed in sympathetic understanding, nods with him, still focused on the road they were on. Before he could speak any further, however, Wilbur sharply led the horse to the left, avoiding a small hole. It knocked Tommy out of balance from the surprise, shutting him up for a second, and Wilbur swopped in to fill the silence. 

"That's enough, we don't want to get caught because we're speaking too loud, we're not safe until we reach New L'manberg's border." Now _that's_ something that ticked Tommy off. He can feel the rise to shout the words out, how unnecessary it was to turn so sharply, to call out the hypocrisy in his words when he himself was speaking, the loudest of them all actually! It's some bullshit if Tommy has ever seen a bigger load of it, the heat from his chest is turning his tongue sharp but before he can explode on Wilbur and call him out, he looks at his face and stops.

Wilbur looks. . . cold. He's unmoving and uninterested in anyone's business but his own, hard edges of his mouth turn downwards with his brows if daring to pick a fight with him. Tommy's anger doesn't wither away or turn cold, but it shimmers under his chest in the pot of his heart, because it's the same hard edge he wore when Tommy talked his talk and shouted with righteous vigor at Dream, pointed fingers with a red face and mouth roaring with a challenge. It's the same face he wore as Wilbur placed his hands on his shoulders and said _Tommy, calm._

He trusts Wilbur, he knows that Wilbur knows much more than he does and he's only doing this for the benefit of both him and Tubbo. He grinds his teeth, he wants to kick his feet and let his heart scream to its content, but when Wilbur pressed his back to his chest, he grounds him in the reality he's facing. Time changes people, their characteristics, and their attitudes, and Wilbur is no expectation to the heavy hand of time. But he's still the same guy who picked berries with him, chased him around, and bullied him by calling him child, who pressed a bandage to his bloody shoulder muttering apologies under his breath. He's still the leader he needs right now and Tommy needs to trust that.

Taking a peek at Tubbo, and maybe he understands that too, because Tubbo falls silent, with his gaze straight forward. It's creepy, so Tommy turns away, diligently ignoring the pit of his stomach.

The silence is full and never-ending throughout the rest of the horse ride.

After a turn and a half of walking, the fields and meadows on either side gave way to scattered fields, and they came to the outskirts of some walls. Still far, he could see that the walls were of a variety of materials placed together by sheer similarity in the color wheel. Some were stone-built, like L'manberg's home walls, while others were of concrete, or even of baked mud bricks. At the edges of the walls had an area of plants and vegetables grown in rows or up trellises, and he noticed the self-sufficiency, it seemed to be important here, although he did not know if it was through choice or necessity. He saw no flags or banners.

New L'manberg, huh?

It was... alright, he guessed. He pushed the ugly, sewer-like feeling down his windpipe. Instead, he opted to knock Wilbur back, cuz c'mon man, a man gotta breathe! 

"Well! Helloooo New L'manberg! Guess who's back baby!?"

His voice carried far and wide and it was worth it; seeing Tubbo throw his head back and laugh with the corners of his eyes scrunched up like candy wraps, and to see Wilbur roll his eyes but with a soft smile placed on his calm face.

And that's enough to distract him from the pit down his stomach.

* * *

A lone farmer is diligently working in his garden when he hears screaming. He pauses in his digging, discarding his tool in greeting for a sword that tasted too much iron. The male looked around for the burning arrows or rumble in the earth, and his eyes fell on the mismatched walls. Ugly design, yes, but still a strong foundation for defense. He picked up his armor, heavy and smothering to the touch, and dashed through a gate. Behind him, a horse neighed for attention.

He has been "living" in these forsaken lands for too long; Dream hasn't been around this area after the skirmish, and Schlatt's men wouldn't come near here unless they have a death wish. He knows when enemies and friends alike come near here. Did Wilbur come back with Tubbo? But it been too soon, did something happen?

He aims his crossbow, the wood tightening with a deathly precision on the hills in front of him. Ready for any disturbance.

Then he hears it— a scream for a laugh. 

He is transported to the kitchen table, Phil humming and flipping pancakes, the warm sun washing everything in its golden hue. Wilbur, with fluffy hair and soft cheeks, croak out a morning greeting before slumping down the wooden chair. And then— the scream for a laugh, high pitched in their childish joy, too much energy to be contained.

He breathes harshly, almost dropping his crossbow for hastening the straps on his waist where his sword waited. There's an itch burning underneath his skin, a screaming brother demanding blood. Who dares to laugh like that?

Remember how autumn felt when you gathered all the leaves from your yard just to jump into them? You and your siblings took turns jumping in, yelling about how it’s not as fluffy after they jumped in. When you heard your names called in for dinner, did you pretend you didn’t hear?

He sees them on the horizon, the doomed hills were the backdrop to the small figures emerging from them. Two horses. One lone figure, too skinny and lanky. The silhouettes draw near, the itch blends with the voices, all drumming in his forehead with a bloodthirst he hasn't felt in a long time. 

He takes aim—

"Tommy?!"

Technoblade, The Blood God himself, drops his own weapon in sheer surprise that turned his hands slack. There's a young boy in the back of one of his horses, he can't focus on the name, and the boy turns up to him and _smiles._

He smiles so _bright_ it hurts.

"Hey, Blade! Did you miss me? The incredible, amazing TommyInnit?"

Wilbur is holding on to the ghost before he gets knocked back by annoyed hands. The young boy hops off and dusts himself off, grinning with a confident posture. Alive, with how his chest rises and falls like his hair with the wind. The voices fall silent, and in their place rises the white noise. _He can't feel his hands_ , the numb feeling spreads down his limbs. The air around him falls heavier than lead, with the noise around distort.

_Oh god, what is he going to tell Phil?_

A short conversation ensued of which Techno followed almost nothing, although from the tones of voice he imagined it went something along the lines of _yeah so Tommy is alive and all._

"Tommy, it's been five years since you died. How the _fuck_ are you alive?"

The phantom, because he simply refuses to believe this, stalls. He turns slowly towards him, eyes were blown wide and his skin pale. A nervous smile slid on with haste, "Man, what are you on, Technoblade? I died, yeah, but only for like two years."

 _He's a fiction of his imagination brought by the shattering mind under stress_ , he pleads to himself. 

**_You're not stupid_**

**_WHAT?_ **

**_Open your eyes_ **

**_OH GOD IS THAT TOMMY??_ **

**_Bruh didn't he like die?_ **

**_HE LIVES!_ **

**_Oh shit, plot advancement baby!_ **

**_F F F F F_ **

**_Pogchamp_ **

**_E_ **

_Shut it,_ he closes his eyes and wills himself to stare at the boy with sunshine hair and pearl smile. A nervous smile, and behind him are the two stalled figures, pleading with their eyes. So they haven't told him. Tubbo, eyes wild between him and Tommy and Wilbur with a mask of indifference.

Ah, fuck it.

(Why is he alive?)

Technoblade, drops his tools, and brings the boy into his arms. Tommy squawks and yelps in surprise, and Techno is reveling on how _real_ he feels. Tommy only stays still long enough for him to smell the oak pines in his hair and the leather in his clothes. 

(. ... does that matter?)

* * *

The void. The encompassing empty space between dimensions, its the ceaseless nothingness, then— 

Two voices, too big and too inhuman, beings on a wholly higher level of existence that he is just brushing against and the perception of a hand petting his hair. Laughing, but it's endearing and soft. 

_and the universe said I love you_

Tommy rages, spit desperation, and brittles with violence. The hands never move away, a bright light— 

_Wake up._

He groans as he gets jolted out of his sleep from a heavy foot against his wooden bed frame. Tommy's hooded eyes glare as menacing as one can with pink pajamas on. It was the only thing that fit Tommy, and Technoblade certainly wasn't intimidated as he simply snorted and walked away. And he even left the door open! The nerve of the bastard!

Tommy does his obligatory yawn and stretching, allowing himself to enjoy the soft bed sheets and the sting on his muscles. The heavy footsteps echo away, leaving Tommy alone in his thoughts. What the fuck was that dream? The sleepy webs clogging his eyes are dissolving away, taking the content of his dream with it. All that remained was the echo of an inhuman voice and a hand in his hair.

What the fuck? Tommy crinkles his nose in self-disgust, he isn't going to waste this morning lamenting and pondering on some whacked-out dream. He died and all, so maybe it came with the package. So he swings his legs from the loved mattress, leaving the discarded sheets a problem for another day. He isn't entirely comfortable walking and talking in the new base, it feels like he's staying at some friend's house rather than the home Wilbur boosted it to be. The wood isn't the same, the air tastes differently, the vibe is heavy, and in addition to the fact he has basically time travel, like an absolute god that he is, well, it doesn't sit well with Tommy.

Tommy curled his hand into a fist at his side so he couldn’t lift it, unbidden, to massage his throat. The area around the base is in controlled chaos. It's weird, trying to dance to a song he hasn't heard when everyone has already memorized the choreography. Even putting on his clothes is weird, because these are _Tubbo's_ old clothes, handed to him with a half-smile and a nervous eye by his not-best-friend. Something about not fitting anymore. Which, frankly, freaked Tommy a little bit. Just enough to set his hairs on edge, but not enough to cause any distress, he's a big man after all.

It is reality personified, disregarding his old, dirty clothes for the old clothes of his friend who outgrew them. There's something poetic to be said there, but Tommy is never one with words. That's all Wilbur.

So when he walks into the kitchen, all there is are cold dishes and empty chairs. There's no longer a memoir of the old memories of when Tommy was younger; the smell of bread and cooked meat as the oven warmed the air with the music danced melodically around them. Techno would dawdle in looking more haggard than yesterday's night. And Wilbur would be humming, brazen as he danced around with lunch in his hands. Phil, so done with the exaggerated acts of his sons, so Phil smacks Wilbur on his head and tells him to sit down. Wilbur would oblige, slump down and pout and that's when Tommy would steal the spotlight. 

The grey kitchen reminds him of cold caves. Too big and imposing, swallowing him like a pill. (Too powerless)

He huffs, annoyed. Where was the fuck is Wilbur? The kitchen table looks too abandoned for his comfort. Even if Techno doesn't do breakfast, at least Tubbo would always make the effort to actually show up. 

He turns on his heels, away from the muted gray kitchen, and begins to stalk for anyone. Even at the crack of dawn, he's still hasn't gotten used to waking up at this hour despite everything. When he fought for their independence, he would always be the last one to wake up. He stops walking in front of one of the tall windows. 

Techno is working on the fields, probably planting potatoes, the weirdo. _Well, we have another mouth to feed_ he told him with the same monotone voice on his first night here. That's something else that ticks Tommy off in this place, just how different Technoblade is. The tone of his voice is weird. He spoke with a certain flatness when there was life before and now he spoke with a certain hesitation whenever he spoke to Tommy. 

Not to Tubbo, the man is always acting like a shoe will drop and chaos is gonna ensue.Tommy absolute fucking _hates_ this because his best friend doesn't respond with jokes or jabs the same way, his laugh is different and the things that just to make him laugh no longer have the same effect it once did. No, not to Tubbo. 

Technoblade didn't speak with hesitation to Wilbur. The same man who, despite all the avoidance Wilbur has done, still drops on Tommy at random times of the day to give meaningless tasks that can be done in seconds. He always lingers for a few seconds longer than comfortable, yet always leaves. Never stays longer than necessary, leaving Tommy feeling the whiplash of his impulsions. 

(They were always brothers after all)

Yet whenever Technoblade speaks to the dead boy of L'manberg, he never met his eyes. _Not. once._ What did he expect to see? Milky white eyes, with bleeding iris? All Tommy can do is just trying to adjust to this weird life cycle now. So he ignores all these little things, bottles them up in glass bottles and chugs them in the deepest part of the ocean that is his mind.

Tommy isn't a fool. He knows that his pugnacious behavior causes him to have fewer friends and more enemies. 

(He feels rejected, but like hell he'll ever admit to such a fact.)

Tommy just expected Wilbur, hell anyone really, to be more...involved? Like he has literally been _dead_ for five years, like went through the whole stopped breathing process and shit. And when _n_ _o one_ told him that, hey, you been dead for five fucking years, Tommy has the right to be a bit fucking salty, doesn't he?

And his voice often leaks of it whenever he talks to Tubbo. He's always busy, either it is out in the border or moving inside the walls.Tubbo is always moving, always acting so Tommy isn't really too surprised when Tubbo smiles awkwardly whenever Tommy is near and he (not so subtly) runs away from him. Tommy shoves the anger aside, the hurt, as its always burning and snarling and it bites and scars him whenever he hides his scowls and nods silently. 

( Fuck him. Who even needs the guy? Not tommy that's who. )

Tommy doesn't know what kind of role he's expected to play here.

Is he supposed to be the same loud mouth that bled to his death in a cold river? A more mature version? Act like he wasn't truamasized? Everyone already has made history that Tommy isn't part of, conversations were made about him after his death that he'll never know of, people are out there still thinking he's dead and buried six feet under. He wants to see Fundy, even if he's some kind of traitor because the last time Tommy saw him; Fundy with tired eyes and slumped shoudlers hold out his own bow that Wilbur gave him, and smiles encouragingly. _Good luck man, give him hell,_ then he patted his shoulder and nodded to him in support as he walked the planks.

Tommy shakes off the cold feeling, walking away to do whatever because he can't really do anything can he? Its embarrassing when he enters a conversation like he's dancing off-beat when others are in sync, so he doesn't walk anywhere near the doors of others. Pride walks at his side and anger is bleeding in his ears.

And that boiled over one day. 

* * *

"This is boring! I want to see L'manberg! To see the fruits of our labor and shit!" Tommy doesn't give a shit if he's shouting at this point, his limb move at their own accord now, his chest puffed out and his head held high in challenge. Wilbur has the audacity to only look mildly annoyed if there was a fly in his desk rather than his (ex) right-hand man, the same man who gave his literal life for the cry of Independence, and that shit just rubs Tommy the wrong fucking way. He narrows his gaze, his eyes looking into Wilbur's figure, as red is slowly creeping in at the edge of his vision.

He steps forward, his dirty boots stomping down on the clean wooden floor. He snarls, his heartbeat beating war drums in his ears, and he can feel the flush of heat in his face. He hates how fast he can get angry, but he's in the right here! 

"This is bull! You can't just expect me to be perfectly content on being stuck here with nothing to do! I got to move and shit, like, what do you want to do here?! You don't allow me to patrol, you don't allow me to spar with Techno, you just want me to some kind of decoration or something?!" Tommy's voice cracking at the end with the cement words pouring out his dry mouth, and that's what gets Wilbur.

He moves back as if he's perceiving Tommy for the first time. He feels worried for Wilbur, he hasn't been out of this damn office in ages, preferring to fight words through letters with Schlatt and Dream, who don't know he's alive. But instead of backing down, letting Tommy breathe in the fresh air away from the out of sync dance he's forced to play, he bunkers down, snarling in return.

"Tommy no! It's too dangerous, and we cannot afford to lose a man at such a crucial time!" Tommy tenses his muscles. How much of an idiot does Wilbur take him for?! He knows better than anybody in the world how dangerous it is out there, to know the consequences of losing a man. He remembers the press of a button and the cold water in his mouth as he chokes. 

Tommy quieting down, rage choking him still. Wilbur sighs, like a tired parent looking at the mess of their toddler, moving from his desk and dropping his pen. He placed his palms on his eyes. 

"Fine. I'll see what I can arrange, but no promises."

Tommy tensely nods, sharply turning away from him, the swirl of his stomach copying his movements. He feels sick. All he wants is to breathe normally again.

* * *

Tommy convulsed, arching in agony, and threw himself forward. He clutched at his neck. Blood was spurting from his nose and pooling in his throat and mouth. Hands were holding him, restraining him, and he threw them off, fighting madly. He felt as if he were choking, and he tore at his throat, desperate. The hands were back, snatching at his wrists. He kicked out wildly, but his feet were held too, and he could only sob and choke on blood, and throw his head back--

 _To cure it of sorrow would destroy it._

He wakes up, twisting and turn, desperate for some respite. Heaving gasps, distantly, he can hear his trembling lungs desperate pumping air in and out. There's a hole in his mind, it takes a knife and scrapes it along with his innards, taunting him of pain and blood. 

There’s always been a chasm inside of Tommy, ridden with terror, wrought by rage. He didn’t dare look too deeply into those depths after he died, when the ragged hole in his chest threatened to tear him in two, but the nightmares pulled him from his safe shore and coaxed him over the edge. Just another step. Just another breath. Deeper. Further.

He snaps himself out of it.

Like _hell_ , Tommy is going to wait around for Wilbur's permission to do something. He's gonna be fine! He'll be all sneaky and shit. Like ninja! He nods to himself, yeah this should be easy. He has done the same thing all the time back in L'manberg, dropping from the walls and walking around without the heavy hands of responsibility on his shoulders. Just to breathe. 

_Buuuutt_.

Sneaking out of New L'manberg, or Pogtopia as he started calling it, is a bit harder than he anticipated. It took him two hours to sneak out. Two hours! And the only reason he could give credit to was the fact that Tommy knew Technoblade's tendencies. He's 100% convinced that the potatoe loving bastard doesn't sleep. 

Tommy walks, still. The same alarmist voice is shouting and jumping _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ Not caring that he's the great, amazing Tommy Innit, the same big man that beat death at it s own game. 

In the wee hours of the night, the forest trees part way and Tommy can see the land where he died for. There's an sharp exhale, and he slowly lets his limps fall numb. The lake is still there, the same shore where he and Tubbo scooped clay to mold whatever the hearts wanted and threw mud at each other just because they could. The prime path, despite what he had seen somewhere else, is in its prime condition here. No pun intended. 

Its a peaceful night, had it not been for the craters where the walls once stood Tommy could've fooled himself in some sort of safety.

The tears come unexpectedly, though.

They weren't of anger or of despair, just tears without the heavy waves of emotions behind them. Should he be screaming right now? He knew there weren't any walls there, Tommy _knew_ that he was gonna get hurt. Still, he silently weeps, reminiscing of the past that's no longer a reality. Within him, the agony of the silence that ensued, leaps, reminding him of all the times of what it should have been.

Such are the atrocities of time, that even when he should be happy, he's alive for fuck's sake, he's taken back to the days of crime, and war that weren't really committed but felt nonetheless. Back when he and tubbo actually _understood_ each other and smiled and laughed loud without caring wether Wilbur heard or not. Hot tears ran down, burning him with shame. As they were felt, little parts of him along with others were gradually lost, into the wild thoughts in his mind.

If only they would see him now.

"Tommy?" He whirled around, coming to face with a cracked white mask. Terror gripped his legs. A bow and blood. He wants to tear his esophagus out, wants to be free from the iron taste turning his tongue numb, to keep the heavy hands _away_ , to kick away as water sweeps into his open mouth— 

"Dream? What the fuck are you doing here?" 

Dream is standing there, well not standing more like holding on to the branch above with his dear life, as he tangles in disbelief. Great, if this couldn't get any worse, now it has. Thanks, Notch! Who the fucks _walks_ on branches, and then just casually _hangs_ on trees? 

"I thought. .. you _died,"_ There's the accusatory note, the underlying issue with this whole thing in the first place. Tommyinnit has died! The people shout. Yeah, well fuck the people, he is standing on his own two feet and his head held high. He doesn't need to be reminded of that fact, he lived through it after all, and he should have remained dead by the look of things.

"Yep, saw God and shit. I'm actually a ghost, and I'm haunting your ass." Dream tilts his head, the white mask now donning a more grey tone, with the hands of time working against it.

"You're. . .haunting me?" He points to his chest, disbelieving, "But. . . I saw it. . . I— " The air between them chills with his words. His voice still carries, choked to gravel though it is.

Tommy barks a harsh laugh. Of course, that's the ever narcissistic Dream, everyone! In the ecotone of the woodland, it ricochets until the air bleeds with the distant chatter of wildlife and the sullen heavy silence. A branch high above them shifts, Tommy lifts a weary arm to mask away from the fatigue in his skin. Wilbur and the others had been rather diligently super hypertensive in their supervising, so he wouldn't be too surprised if they would be out there— sweeping. Searching.

Tommy couldn't muster the act to give a flying fuck anymore though, he just plops himself down the grassy hill, not caring for the stains in his trousers, and leans back a little. Dream doesn't move from his hiding spot, just waits for the shoe to fall and the arrows to come flying from the trees. Tommy knows he's gambling a lot right now, his rakish care is doing him no favor if this turns sideways. 

"Yeah man, totally a ghost. I am your conscious, bitchboy!" The alarmist voice inside his head is shouting profanities and warnings of _run, run, run, run_. Repeating the broken mantra that comes unbidden, cracked, and hoarse. His throat aches, the ghost feeling of water running up his nose, and the bitter taste of iron in his gums leave him feeling ill. He should be running, honestly, the Admin of the server is his killer, and he is leaving himself vulnerable for his attack.

But he doesn't. Instead, he pats the patch of grass next to him and waits for three breaths before Dream plops down next to him. 

He's different too. 

"How are you here?"

Tommy grins, "Didn't you hear? I'm your conscious and shit. I just wanted to take a break from all that shit that is going down there bro." Dream tilts his head again.

"So did you. . . come to the hill to see the stars?"

Tommy barks out a dry laugh.

"Yeah, something like that, I guess."

To see the stars? Didn't he and Phil used to do the same thing? To sit back, his head on his lap as Phil talked about the constellations. Their own little private thing, something done only between each other. Not for Technoblade and not for Wilbur. Just Phil and Tommy. 

"How are you still alive?" Dream, the green bastard, really knows how to ruin the moment. Tommy considers the idea of lying but then he remembers Tubbo.

"Well, I drop kicked death in its ball—" probably, and knowing himself he mostly did, "I would have stabbed God if I ever saw him. Fucking bastard." Did Tommy even see it? 

"You... saw God?" Hands petting his pounding head, white noise bleeds into his ears, and voices distorts _it creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun—_

"Or something."

Distant voices creep up from the deep forest, two distinct that strike Tommy with familiarity. Is he here or there, with tall towers and purple flames--- and maybe Dream does too, because he gets up, wiping away any stains on his pants.

Then Tommy's subconscious flicks his forehead, striking the memory of a promise loose.

"Oh yeah, before you leave, do me a favor, yeah?"

Dream tilts his head, and that's when Tommy throws his punch.

Okay, _maybe_ Tommy shouldn't have punched Dream.

So what if his hand hurt? And that brings a good question, what the fuck was Dream's mask even made out of? Steel? Another unpleasant turn of events. Tommy folded his arms with a sigh, the burning pain in his knuckles cooled to throbbing. Fear, guilt, and worry all tried to clamor equally for his attention. He ruthlessly pushed the emotions far away from his mind and tries to focus on walking.

"Well," he said, slowly, talking to the air, "It's not ideal. But I can totally turn this around." 

So what if he got lost? He isn't the direction man, that's all Technoblade's experty, so he isn't really sure if he's walking towards or away from "New" L'manberg. Tommy recalls the one time he got lost walking towards spawn and somehow circled back and preceded to get lost again. Wilbur had lost his mind when they finally found him, and Tubbo-- 

The break of a branch snatched Tommy from his daydreaming. 

_Where?_ Tommy turns everywhere, to the top of the trees to the bushes to find the culprit. His heart thunders, and he cleches his fist to ready them for a fight. _There?_ He should have brought a weapon with him, how stupid of him. _Impulsive_ says his mind sounding too much like Wilbur, and Tommy flips it off.

A rustle, and with a fist as bloodthirsty as his impulsions, Tommy swings, his balance tumbling. 

"Ow! What the fuck?!" 

Mismatched eyes, bright and wide with a inhuman hand clenching their face. A basket fell, scattering the apples in the dirt. 

Tonmy blinks.

"Wait, who the fuck are you?!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOH!! Sorry, it took me a while to upload this! I thought this was gonna be waayy longer, but after so much editing and the time gaps, I decided to split this in half for better (hopefully) quality. I am so sorry this took so long! BUT! There's a valid reason for this!
> 
> I have been working on an animatic for a while, and i actually uploaded a WIP of it while i was writing this. 
> 
> The reason why i kept working with this story is mainly through the massive support! I love reading the comments, and honestly, those were mostly why I kept writing even though I felt my fingers breaking off. I wanted to thank each and every one of y'all for dropping +2690 kudos!! Like wtf that's insane. 
> 
> UPDATE 2: So.... I finished my animatic before updating this. How am i so slow at this.
> 
> new video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKMIYlP6xtk

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a kudo or I drop you


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